


A Rule Meant to Be Broken

by ChatterBoxomie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M, My First Work in This Fandom, One of my most innocent pieces honestly, Short & Sweet, figured i might as well upload it, when i was a baby fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatterBoxomie/pseuds/ChatterBoxomie
Summary: She couldn’t quite recall if he had always been there. It was as if he had manifested straight out of the Fade, itself, a punishment from the Chantry’s Maker. For what? She had several theories.One being that she refused to believe in said Maker. Another being that, perhaps, she toed the line one too many times. Who knew, really?But he was definitely a punishment thrust upon her. That, or a curse.





	A Rule Meant to Be Broken

“It was terrifying to love someone who was forbidden to you. Terrifying to feel something you could never speak of, something that was horrible to almost everyone you knew, something that could destroy your life.”

\- Cassandra Clare, _Lord of Shadows_

She supposed that it would have been smarter of her to learn to ignore the Templars, as she’d been advised to do. To pretend that they weren’t there, as if they were merely a part of the walls around her. Just another brick in the tower that encircled them all.

She wished to blame Rivain for her absurd tolerance of them. For her penchant for engaging them in conversation, asking them about their days, behaving as though they were anything but jailers, behaving as though they were old friends rather than cruel men who would derive pleasure from her suffering.

However, despite what she’d been told, Vera Marcelin had always been a strong-willed child, and she wasn’t quite able to shake her stubborn nature as she grew into a young woman.

Perhaps that was why this was happening.

Because she never listened, never knew how to draw the line.

This was her own fault, she recognized. What sort of **_idiot_** let herself fall in… fall…

She couldn’t even think it. Couldn’t let the idea present itself to her.

Knew it would mean that it was **_real_**.

She was flying too close to the sun, had disregarded the warnings, and any day now, she would be burned. Her own dreams taunted her, showed her what she knew could never come to pass, filled her chest with both anguish and a terrible longing.

She couldn’t quite recall if he had always been there. It was as if he had manifested straight out of the Fade, itself, a punishment from the Chantry’s _Maker_. For what? She had several theories.

One being that she refused to believe in said _Maker_. Another being that, perhaps, she toed the line one too many times. Who knew, really?

But he was definitely a punishment thrust upon her. That, or a **_curse_**.

She couldn’t seem to shake him. Thinking about him was dangerous, she knew, and she hated that she couldn’t do it as freely as she would have liked. Thinking about him led to deeper infatuations, fondness, the uncontrollable urge to search the halls for him.

The relief she felt when she saw his face both warmed and terrified her.

She was a fool.

And her ill-advised attachment was further aggravated upon listening to the whispers of her fellow mages. The teasing murmurs of a _love affair_ between herself and the subject of her frustrations, the probing questions about the nature of their relationship, the rumors that he looked upon her as if seeing the sun for the first time in his life.

(She thought about testing that last one, but her courage fled her as quickly as it had arrived. The idea that he could feel just as strongly for her as she did about him would be her undoing, and she knew better than to entertain the notion.)

So, she learned to ignore what the others said about it.

And yet, she couldn’t quite convince herself to stay away from him, as she _should_ have.

Just the sight of those eyes of his (warm like gold) was enough to weaken her in the knees.

Enough to brighten the rest of her day.

She found that she had more energy, more motivation, to keep going, to keep getting up, to stay where she was and forfeit any chance to fight, to escape, whenever she saw his face. Or thought of that soft voice of his.

No longer did she dream of the outside world, not like she once did.

Now, her dreams consisted of dangerous fantasies that could never come to be.

Fantasies of pressing her fingers to his skin, of allowing herself to fall into his embrace, would plague her every waking thought. She didn’t dare entertain any further delusions.

It was enough to dream of the way his gloved hands would feel around her waist.

To think of how her name might sound when murmured close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips. Any further than that, and the heat would begin to rise in her body, and she would begin to tremble, would grow quickly embarrassed and force herself to focus on whatever task she’d been attempting to complete, at the time.

“Cullen Rutherford.”

A name she kept folded within the deepest confines of her heart.

She was honestly surprised to find that she could weather the storm of her Harrowing when her mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of both running from the man, as far as she could, and pulling him close to her so that she could show him what her lips could not utter.

The demon, true to its nature, knew intimately of her predicament, offered to grant to her what she desired most, to give her the courage and the strength to overcome her own fears, to _tempt_ Cullen to give into his own wishes (it claimed, as if it was possible for such a thing to ever exist between them).

She knew better than to accept its (tempting) offer, but still, she feared that her guilt would be etched into her face, that her sins would be carved into her soul, bared for all who were witness to her Harrowing to see.

Thankfully, this was not the case, it seemed.

She awoke in the infirmary, accompanied only by Jowan, entirely unmolested by indignant Templars – and was relieved to find that no one could tell what was happening behind her eyes.

That no one quite knew why she was so flustered.

(The memory of the image planted into her mind by the creature in the Fade, of the phantom feeling of “Cullen’s” lips against her own, of his fervent whispers of devotion, of adoration, of his willingness to escape with her, to build a life with her – she couldn’t quite understand what Jowan was telling her, bogged down by the echoes of such a stupid, _dangerous_ fantasy, and had to resolve to pretending that she had heard what he’d said, so as to avoid further irritating him.)

She’d needed air. That was how it happened.

She had needed to clear her mind, to rid herself of such troubling thoughts, and had been planning on visiting the archives after speaking with the First Enchanter.

At the worst possible moment, she had spotted him.

_Cullen Rutherford._

The Templar who (unknowingly, she hoped) held her heart firmly in his grasp.

He was already looking at her when she met his gaze.

And seemed to be startled by having been “caught in the act”.

(As well as a tad bit embarrassed.)

She tried to tell herself to keep walking, to ignore him, but she couldn’t.

(Predictably. She _never_ could, not with Cullen.)

She changed direction rather quickly (not _too_ quickly, she hoped), and once he saw that she was coming closer, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting down the halls around them.

By the time she reached him, her heart was pounding so loud in her ears that she missed half of what he said to her, and had to ask him to repeat himself.

(The dismay she felt, in having made a fool of herself before his very eyes, was almost enough to make her turn on her heel and flee as though the _Darkspawn_, themselves, were on her heels.)

(Miraculously, she managed not to do so – and to spare herself further humiliation.)

“Oh? I – did you ask me to repeat myself?” his eyes flickered once, twice, more, almost as if he couldn’t maintain eye contact with her. She was relieved that this was the case – otherwise, it would have become quite uncomfortable for them both.

(She couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him, by way of direct contrast.)

“I’m sorry,” she hastened to respond, embarrassed by the way that her voice nearly left her when his eyes met her own. She tried to look away, but something about his gaze wouldn’t allow it.

(Somewhere in her mind, she could hear the faint echoes of the creature from the Fade.

It was _laughing_ at her.)

(What a fool she was.)

“No, no,” he interjected, just as quickly as she had. “I – it’s alright. I,” he cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have muttered. It’s in bad form to do that when speaking to a lady.”

She could feel something fluttering in her chest, could feel liquid flames melting through her veins. “A lady,” he had called her. Not a “charge”. Not a mage.

_A lady._

(This was simply how he was, she chastised herself. Mortified by her own airheaded giddiness.

He was well-raised, and possessed impeccable mannerisms. Nothing to be a ninny about.)

She could think of nothing to say – and had a thousand things she wanted to say, at once.

This was what happened – he confused her, and her words became all twisted in her mind, wouldn’t come out right, her tongue trying its hardest to become one with the roof of her mouth.

(_Bastard_, she thought to herself, half-heartedly – and immediately regretted it.)

Sensing that she wouldn’t be responding (after a whole minute of horrible silence), he hurried to save them both from the embarrassment of a failed conversation.

“I, well, that is, I was merely saying hello.” He cleared his throat, and she noticed that, once again, he seemed to be having trouble getting his words to come out right.

(Which was, to say, still more of a success than her own efforts.)

She had once thought that this was simply the way he spoke, as he never failed to stumble over his words when speaking to her – however, after witnessing his clear, smooth speech when conversing with his fellow Templars, or, at times, with the other mages, she had come to the realization that he only ever forgot how to speak when he was doing so with _her_.

(Something about that thought made her flush with pleasure.)

“Oh,” she could feel her skin becoming warmer, almost unbearably so.

She would have feared that she was under the control of some nefarious sort of spell, but this was _always_ how she felt around him. If she spent any longer than a few moments in his presence, her body would begin to betray her own absurd sentimentalities.

(The ones that she knew would one day get her killed.)

“Well, then – hello, Cullen,” was her simple response.

She tried not to say his name often, because she felt as though it were a blessing on her lips, as though the word were enough to soothe her every ailment – and thought it would be a _waste_ to use it so often.

(In addition, stupidly, like a child, she wanted to keep the word to herself. Wanted to keep the happiness, the warmth, that it brought her confined within her bones.)

(She was rather hopelessly infatuated with the man, as it would appear.)

“Hello,” he returned, with a hesitant flicker of his lips. The barest hint of a smile.

She returned the gesture, equally as nervous.

“Congratulations on your Harrowing,” he went on. Fidgeting once more, shifting his weight back.

Once more, she thought of the creature from the Fade, and wondered if she hadn’t been stupid to refuse its offer. (Then, instantly, felt terrible about the thought.)

She couldn’t help noticing that he had taken a step forward, towards her, and, subtly, she peered around before inching closer, herself.

Having expected him to notice, and to step back, she was pleasantly surprised to see that, rather than “mending” the situation, he seemed to regain a bit of coloring in his face.

(He didn’t back away.)

“Thank you,” her tone was pleasant, calmer than the pounding in her chest.

“It, _um_, it would have been a shame, otherwise,” he said.

(_Professional courtesy_, she tried to tell herself. It helped very little to know this.)

“Of course. I would have placed the entire tower in danger,” she spoke, softly.

“I… Yes, that’s true.” He was silent for a moment, almost as if surprised by her words, as if he hadn’t thought of that. As if he felt horrible for his momentary negligence. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, but this time, her smile came easier. “You’re very sweet.”

He seemed dumbfounded by her words, caught off-guard by them, and she wanted nothing more than to bring him closer, to wrap her arms around him and press a kiss to his chapped lips.

(She knew better than to do so, of course.)

“I…” he hesitated, peering down both sides of the halls, once more, before taking another small step in her direction. Fingers flexing at his sides, tense. “I was at your Harrowing.”

He said it as though it were a confession, and his voice sounded heavier than usual when he did.

It didn’t take her long to realize what he meant.

Rather than feeling threatened by such an admission, as any reasonable mage should, she felt strangely relieved. Rather than feeling as though her life had been in danger, she felt…

She felt as though everything was much better, to think that Cullen was there, himself.

That he was watching over her, protecting her from the horror of becoming something other than herself.

Anyone else would have been worried. She was only concerned by the fact that she _wasn’t_.

“I see.” Once more, she was at a loss for words. “Were you meant to…?”

“Yes,” he interrupted, and when she fell silent, he tried to explain himself, tried to apologize. “I swear, it was nothing personal.”

“Would you have struck me down?” She already knew the answer, but still, her heart wanted to crawl out of her ribs and drown itself in the lake surrounding the tower upon hearing him admit to it.

“I would have felt terrible about it,” he swallowed, hard. “But I serve the Chantry and the Maker, and I will do as I am commanded.”

She wanted to drive Knight-Commander Greagoir’s blade into his own lungs and watch him choke on the blood. Why – why did he have to **_be_** like this?

(_But it’s hardly his fault that you’re ass-over-tea-kettle in love with one of his templars_, the logic within her argued.)

It was her own fault for getting so damn attached. There was a reason mages and templars didn’t mingle, didn’t bond – it was for the sake of the well-being of the Circle.

For the well-being of everyone inside. It was _easier_ that way.

“I understand,” she said, politely, although a part of her didn’t.

A part of her was screaming that nothing made sense; didn’t understand why she had to make her own life harder by having such ill-advised fantasies for a _Templar_, of all people.

However, that was her own fault. He was hardly to blame – for _any_ of this.

Nonetheless, it was suddenly becoming harder to breathe, knowing that Cullen would have raised his blade and taken her life, if he’d seen reason to.

Knowing that, in the end, no Templar would **_ever_** be the exception.

It didn’t matter how sweet, how kind, how helpful, how beautiful he was – Cullen Rutherford could never be anything but a **_Templar_** to her.

“I shouldn’t distract you from your duties, ser,” she spoke, voice softer than before, knowing that it would be better to end this conversation, here, where it hadn’t become quite so unpleasant, yet.

“I…” his voice trailed into silence. Then, both to her dismay and relief, he took a step back, as if to unblock her path. “Yes, of course. I mustn’t keep you, either.”

“Good evening,” she meant to leave, then, to find the First Enchanter and then to forgo the idea of heading to the archives, to simply turn in for the day (and spend the rest of it wallowing in self-pity within the relative safety of her own bed), but what he said next gave her pause.

“You can come speak with me anytime you’d like.”

She couldn’t be too sure, but she could almost hear her own hope being reflected back at her in his voice. And when she looked at him, she couldn’t deny it, anymore.

Couldn’t pretend that the rumors didn’t have any substance.

The longing in his eyes mirrored her own – reached out to her and begged her to stay, even while his lips could not.

She didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but, just like that, almost without thinking, she was blurting out, “Do you have time?”

“Time?” he repeated, confused.

“Yes. That is, are you busy, at the moment?”

He took another long look down the hall, towards the archives, where they could hear the voices of mages drifting away from. “I… yes. Perhaps we can speak at a later time?”

She would normally leave, then, excuse herself and go berate herself for an hour, or so, on her transparency – however, whatever had possessed her to speak out of turn, before, was continuing to do so, now.

It was almost as if she were hearing the words come from someone else’s mouth.

(She half-worried that the creature might have seized her body, after all, and that this was all simply a figment of the Fade.)

“I… really need to see you in private, ser.”

She blinked down at the floor, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes.

Hating herself for ever having said a word, rather than being wise enough to have taken the opportunity to flee.

“I… I suppose that’s a reasonable request.”

His words surprised her, but more than that, she surprised herself by turning on her heel to tread, almost casually, down the hall. To where, she wasn’t sure.

To do what, she really didn’t know.

Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she almost couldn’t hear herself think.

However, she _could_ hear the clinking of armor behind her, and felt herself beginning to flush with color, beginning to regret ever having woken up, having survived the Harrowing.

What was she going to say to Cullen? What would she do?

She couldn’t tell him that she had forgotten what she’d wanted – she’d made it sound important for him to go with her. She couldn’t stand the idea of making an ass of herself, not after embarrassing herself before him, already.

But… she couldn’t think of anything to say. Was scrambling for some made-up excuse.

What could _possibly_ be urgent enough to speak to a Templar, _alone_?

She tried to think of what Jowan would do, in her shoes, but realized that it was futile.

Jowan was not fool enough to find himself alone with a Templar – much less to purposely invite one to follow him into a secluded area.

By the time she began to realize where she was headed, she was already turning into the room, going to stand near the bookshelf, beside one of the writing desks, allowing the distance between herself and the doorway to grow.

Because she was expecting company. That of a Templar’s.

Cullen’s.

It was one of the rooms that was used for the purpose of studying.

However, this one wasn’t quite as popular as the alcoves in the library.

She knew of it only because she found that she learned better when she was alone.

As this was difficult to achieve in a tower full of mages, she’d been quite relieved to find such a sanctuary. Had even set up some of her books here, rather than crowding them into the space beneath her bed.

And now, she was grateful to whatever deity was out there, be it the Maker or not, that she had memorized the way there. That she could find her way without thinking.

At least now, she wouldn’t have an audience to embarrass herself before.

(_No, just the only person who matters_, something inside of her scoffed.)

The clinking of his armor grew closer, once more, and he stepped into the room, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. Her hands were beginning to grow clammy, but it was too late to back out, now.

He turned, then, to face her, reaching for his blade.

For whatever reason, she didn’t scream, didn’t cry out in alarm – didn’t even flinch.

She was transfixed, watching him as he held it away from himself, setting it against the wall beside him. He was… disarming himself?

(_Why?_ Her answer came soon enough.)

When his eyes met hers, once more, she was thrown for a loop to see something in them she had never seen before, in anyone else’s eyes. (Especially not directed at herself.)

He took a step toward her, then another, close enough to reach out his arms and grab her.

(Though he did not.)

She meant to say something, to apologize for her strange behavior, but when their gazes met, once more, she could see it, again.

The longing from before. She knew it must have been evident in her eyes, as well, because he inhaled sharply, face shifting, showing her something that she was terrified to see because she was afraid she must be betraying her own sanity by expressing the same.

She took a step forward, and when she tried to stop herself, she found that she couldn’t.

It was as if she was dreaming. The world fell away, the Circle with it, and the mages, the Templars, the whole damn thing, and she didn’t **_care_**, anymore.

Didn’t care that he was wearing armor meant to protect himself from her, that he possessed the ability to take her magic from her, her _life_, and to destroy everything she cared about. She didn’t care about it, because in that moment, even if it was a lie she told herself, she knew that he wouldn’t.

That even if he could, he would **_never_** bring himself to harm her.

She just hoped he knew that she could never hurt him, either.

That she would sooner draw a blade across her own throat than ever let anything convince her to turn her magic against him. That she would burn down the Fade, shatter everything inside it, if it meant he was safe.

There were so many words she wanted to say to him, but nothing would come out.

All she could do was reach for him, and hope that he wouldn’t push her away.

He didn’t.

Her fingers settled along the skin of his cheeks, his chin, and she finally, **_finally_**, knew what it felt like to touch Cullen Rutherford. It was nothing like she’d expected.

It was better than anything she could have imagined.

And just like that, she was kissing him.

For a long, terrible moment, he did nothing.

She was so intoxicated by the feeling of his lips against hers that it almost didn’t matter.

He smelled of armor polish, and his lips tasted bitter against her own (_lyrium_, she guessed) – but even then, she couldn’t help feeling further endeared to him. Everything about him screamed “Templar”, but it was also Cullen, Cullen Rutherford, and it didn’t matter that he was a templar because that was who he was, and she wanted every part of him – the parts that drew her nearer, that charmed her, as well as the parts that worried her. That scared her.

She hadn’t fallen in love with _half_ of the man, after all.

She had never seen him out of the armor and didn’t know if it would make a difference.

He seemed similarly inclined, because before she could pull away, apologize, maybe take that chance to flee and never show her face around him, again, his lips began to move against hers, and he pressed himself closer to her.

Moved his hands from her hips (which she had never noticed to be the case) to encircle her waist. To press against her back. To draw her closer, against himself.

She felt his eyes close against her own, and knew that this might be the only chance they ever got. So, she threw her arms around him, despite the tremors in her heart, the trembles in her fingers, and deepened the kiss, pressing her lips harder against his.

The noise he made was soft, better than the creature in the Fade could ever emulate. And when he breathed her name against her lips, she fell apart. She didn’t know when it had happened, or why, but she was pressed up against the desk, now, his hands gripping the edges to keep everything steady.

His mouth was hot against hers, persistent, and she could hear herself sighing, but couldn’t find it within herself to care. All she knew was that she would kill every last demon if it meant that Cullen Rutherford would ever kiss her, again.

It didn’t last long. It was over far too soon.

Just as he had parted from her, to catch his breath, forehead pressed against hers, they heard the telltale clinking of armor through the door, in the halls. They both froze, then, the world snapping back into place, reality crashing through the little refuge they’d taken with one another.

Whatever had existed there, in that quiet, stolen moment, was gone.

What stood now, in its place, was **_fear_**.

And just like that, he was pulling away from her, his eyes meeting hers, and she was looking away to watch the door. The footsteps faded, and the relief was palpable between them.

He stepped back, his eyes filled with a sadness that crushed her soul, and she could hear her own heart breaking into tiny pieces, stabbing through her lungs, when he turned away from her and replaced his blade.

He didn’t speak a word, but his eyes said everything he couldn’t when he looked back at her, one last time, from his place by the door. His hand against the wood.

(The same one that had felt so firm, so _gentle_, against her back.)

His eyes spelled out an apology, anguish, and a longing that had only grown because of their ill-advised contact, a longing that she suspected would never fade.

Because she knew she would never feel the same way about anyone else that she did about him.

No one could ever be “Cullen Rutherford” for her.

It was only when he had shut the door behind him, and left her there, in that room, alone, feeling the ghost of his fingers against her body, his lips against hers, that she let the tears fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short through-the-keyhole perspective piece on the DLC romance between the Female Mage Warden and Ser Cullen Rutherford. I think I wrote this when I first got into Dragon Age: Origins, a few years ago. I'm not really sure why I never uploaded this (maybe I didn't think it was good enough?), but as I was working on overhauling my Archive account - getting rid of pieces I didn't think I'd ever update - I decided since this piece was finished, I should treat my Dragon Age readers to a short and sweet little romance piece. Even if the ending is rather bittersweet.
> 
> But, well, it's pretty rare for me to write a happy ending, so. This is as good as it gets, most of the time.
> 
> I do plan to upload a full story-length Dragon Age story, to make up for taking down the other one, revolving around the typical Modern Girl in Thedas storyline - with a twist, of course. Always, with a twist, my works are. I'm like a cook that looks at the recipe but only follows the vague idea of the treat. ^^;;
> 
> To keep you all floating until then, feel free to re-read this piece as many times as you'd like. I honestly thought it was so cute. ^^ One of my more innocent pieces, as I put in the tags. I think this, and some of the Transformers pieces, will probably be my only innocent pieces, considering how dark and morbid my other work gets. ^^;; I'm done rambling! See you next time!


End file.
